


once we were

by ourcrimescene



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxious Inquisitor, Awkward Conversations, Basically my new OTP, Crack Pairing, F/M, Friendship, Learning to be brave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourcrimescene/pseuds/ourcrimescene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We held together the fragile sky to keep our way of life, once we were not afraid of the night.</p><p>Female Inquisitor, Fenris, and learning how dragons are slain (it's bravery, dragons are slain with bravery)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

Amalia has never been so horrified to see the color silver tingeing a faint red. Not when she dons an ancient symbol on her armor, not when she lurches forward in time, not when facing down a fear demon—it is now. When silver lines glowing a brilliant blue suddenly darken and begin to morph, she feels everything inside her grow cold, her magic spark at her fingers, out of control, unconscious.

These silver lines, horrifically crafted, aesthetically beautiful and meaning something intangible, unnamable to her, suddenly morphing red with a flick of a finger causes her stomach to twist into a knot—she fears she will wretch up the bile inside of it.

Ice snap freezes from her fingers, her shoulders, her chest, every surface of her skin, coating half the terrace in a hard, white layer of ice. It blankets the offending red templar holding a rune in his palm, the entire area dropping several degrees in temperature.

She turns on her heel, whirling her staff in a complete circle before slamming the sharp point of it into one of the mason stones—the rune on it flares, the stone it lands on crumbles, she breathes. A giant monolith of ice snaps from the ground, impaling Samson through both shoulders, his knees. The ice rises farther yet, lifting the templar from the ground such that his feet lift higher than her head.

The ice is thick, solid, and forms a mausoleum around him.

The lines snap back to silver, and he drops to the ground, green eyes fluttering closed.

A wordless cry escapes her mouth. 

This elf with silver tattoos lining the entire length of his body, with long fingers and green eyes and matching silver hair—Fenris may mean nothing to the world, but to her, he is _everything_.


	2. one

The figure on the peak of the rise, the man who Scout Harding had spoken of hours ago, said to be hunting the Venatori mages, is lean and willowy—an elf, she can tell, only elves can be so slender but still made of steel. He’s tall for an elf though, about the same height as her, which is no small feat—Trevelyans are made of tall stock. Tall, ungraceful, bull-headed, and unruly.

Any man who dare call Fereldans barbaric while singing the praises of the Free Marcher nobility has obviously never met the Trevelyans, one of the premier noble families of Ostwick.

Being the family disgrace herself, she almost thinks to be grateful for having spent much of her life away from her relations, but she can’t find it in herself. The Circle tower was boring until it wasn’t, until everything in Kirkwall…well, went to shit. Everything shortly followed suit after that. Even boring Ostwick rose up, and Amalia rose up with them, largely out of inertia, out of lack of decision. There wasn’t particularly anywhere else to go, nowhere to go home to so she just—left.

The figure’s got a hood drawn up around his face and an enormous sword at his back—how does he even carry that thing? He isn’t bulky like Bull, doesn’t have the sheer mass to counterweight swinging it around. Sera, Bull, and Solas hang back a few paces, though all three stand ready to spring into action should it be necessary.

Dead, fallen leaves crunch under her foot, and he turns to face her, his arms crossed. Silvery lines span the length of his throat in intricate patterns indiscernible to her. His hair is nearly white, though certainly not from age, and pushed back out of his face underneath his hood. His coat is heavy leather with plate armor underneath, armor that tells a story in the scratches and dents in what was once high quality steel.

The arms of the coat are cut at the shoulder, with heavy metal pauldrons and vambraces spanning the lengths of his arms. He wears a gauntlet on his left hand ending in razor sharp claws at the tips of his fingers—claws that could rip through a chest or a throat in animal-like savagery. He’s clad all in what was once black, but has sun-bleached to a warm gray—the only color on him is a tattered red scarf loosely wrapped around his throat beneath his coat.

She warily appraises him, eyes searching for any weapons beyond the sword at his back—if he’s armed further, he conceals so well. She notes the gap between his pauldron and chestguard, a weak point that a well placed shard of ice could pierce. Though not necessarily a location that could yield an instantly fatal wound, if the tendons just beneath the skin were cut, he would instantly lose functionality of the arm, much less the insidious frost she could instantly send through his blood.

Amalia’s magic abilities are crude and unrefined, but no one has ever called them dainty. Her offensive magic is brutal, deadly to a fault. Other mages prefer the ostentatious fire and lightning that crackle through the air, but ice has always come easiest to her. Ice is insidious, creeping through moisture in the body and causing imminent and deadly infection. She can form a tomb around an enemy, snuff out life with a twitch of a finger that snap freezes her immediate vicinity.

Vivienne sneered at Amalia’s abilities condescendingly from the start. Vivienne is the very essence of what Amalia is not—refined grace. Amalia is crude brutality that gets the job done without fail.

Amalia secretly wishes she were Vivienne.

“Inquisitor,” He says, his voice rough like aged sandpaper—not quite with the intensity of recently crafted friction, but sandpaper nonetheless—with a light accent she can’t quite place. 

“My scouts said that you hunt Venatori.” She replies, flexing her hands nervously should she need to spring into action. His stance shifts in response, his keen eyes noticing the movement. She has the feeling that she stands mere feet from a very dangerous man.

“I hunt Tevinter slavers,” He replies, “I know little of this cult you speak of, but it seems that, for now, our targets overlap.”

A very dangerous man, indeed.

She swallows the nervous lump in her throat. Every instinct in her is screaming to run in the face of man so obviously threatening, a man she could not hope to face in battle and come out unscathed. Instead, she puts on her Inquisitor façade, her brave face, icy in opposition. “It would seem so,” Her companions behind her are uncharacteristically quiet, obviously straining to hear their quiet conversation.

“I am no danger to you, Inquisitor,” He uncoils his muscles in what appears to be an act of good faith, though she highly doubts that it would take more than a fraction of second for him to shift back into a readied pose. “My name is Fenris, and I have no quarrel with the Inquisition. I hunt Tevinter slavers, and so long as you hold no alliance with such men, you will have no trouble from me.”

Amalia isn’t an idiot, as much as she feels like an imposter among the distinguished men and women around her. She’s read Tale of the Champion, listened to repeated stories from Kirkwall telling of the Champion and her companions. She suspected from the start that the elf before her is Fenris since she saw the silver tattoos, but receiving confirmation of such is…something else. The elf in the book is skilled, can take mages and templars alike down with casual ease, and he certainly has an air about him of immeasurable skill. Amalia hopes she can exhibit similar. “We have no intentions to do so.” She says. “How many are there?”

“Twelve,” Fenris replies.

Amalia works to school her face to hide her emotions, her uncertainties. “I assume you wish to work together.”

His lips quirk up, into a small, wry smile that at some time would have been foreign, like cracking a plate, but now almost seems to belong there. “Your scouts would not have seen me if I wished otherwise.”

Amalia hesitates for a brief second, before glancing over her shoulder. “Let’s move out,” She calls to Sera, Solas, and Bull. Bull is the first to approach, obviously the least afraid of Fenris, followed by Sera, and Solas trailing behind them.

The season is starting to change, out in the Hinterlands, with leaves falling from the trees in earnest. The air is drying around them, the wind crisp and cold. Skyhold is getting even colder than it normally is, and all around them foliage is dying and shedding leaves, animals are going into hibernation.

All of the dead leaves on the ground make stealth nearly impossible, but as per usual, Sera and Solas are light enough on their feet to remain completely silent, and it seems Fenris is able to do the same. This leaves Amalia and Bull, making what is comparatively a racket with the crunching of the leaves.

“The Tevinters ahead are mostly mages, so be prepared.” Fenris says softly, dropping his hood from around his face, presumably to have full range of sight. Amalia can practically feel Solas’s judgmental stare at the back of Fenris’s head, without even being the target of Solas’s disapproval. Some of the silver tattoos are visible on the back of his neck around his hair, and she can assume Solas is inwardly raging.

If Solas has anything to say, he is keeping it to himself at least for the moment, probably out of caution to avoid premature detection by the Venatori. Amalia doesn’t doubt that he will say his piece once the danger has passed, and she only hopes she won’t need to play peacekeeper. She has a hard enough time mediating between Sera and Solas, and she doesn’t need Fenris joining the constant arguments.

She glances over her shoulder, and her scouts are exchanging dubious looks. Amalia faces forward, and discretely looks Fenris up and down. Up close, she can see that his entire frame is tightly corded, lean muscle. “Fenris,” She says, “Are those markings on your entire body?”

“They are,” He replies. He doesn’t elaborate any further, but Amalia sees Solas grimace out of the corner of her eye. She gives him a sour look, pouring every ounce of her being into a look that says ‘don’t bring it up’. Amalia has never been a skilled mediator, even though the role of being the largest mediator in all of Thedas has been thrust upon her in the shape of a burning eye pierced by a sword.

“You’re not very elfy,” Sera says, and Amalia winces. To her relief, Fenris merely chuckles.

“I would hope not,” Fenris replies, “I have not spent any time with the Dalish.”

“Good, it’s better innit?” Sera seems quite pleased with their guest, and Amalia feels particularly unsure how she feels about it. Generally if one of her merry band of misfits approves of someone, there are an equal amount of dissenting opinions amongst the others.

“That’s a good sword you have there.” Bull says, scrutinizing it. Fenris glances over his shoulder, giving Bull’s greataxe a once-over.

He pauses, then replies to Bull in Qunlat, and Amalia is briefly taken aback that he can speak it so well.

Bull laughs. “You’re full of surprises, elf.”

Amalia shoots Solas a venomous look, non-verbally daring him to speak. She does like Solas quite a lot, she really does, but she knows what is at the tip of his tongue. She imagines accusations of forsaking their elven heritage or consenting to abominable markings, derision akin to Solas’s distaste with Sera. Neither option is an opinion or statement that would go over well, so she would prefer that he keep it to himself at least until they don’t need Fenris to assist in taking out the massive Venatori force.

“The Tevinters are holed up in an old mine, so it’ll be difficult to get them off-guard,” He casts a glance over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. “Luckily, I have years of experience.”

For the first time, Amalia wonders how old he is. It’s always been hard for her to gauge the age of elves, who seem to appear eternally youthful until suddenly they’re not, as if elves age over the course of a single year.

For a brief moment, she feels inadequate and woefully out of her depth, but she firmly shakes the thought. There’s no room for doubt, not when she leads quite possible the greatest military and political force in Thedas. No looking back at previous failures or ruminations on inferiority or overstepping her position, only icy calm and decisive actions. A flip of the coin for choices she can hardly make and dealing with the consequences—begging for forgiveness rather than asking for permission.

Fenris comes to an abrupt stop, crouching down among the waist-high brush, providing scarce cover due to the season, but sufficient enough at this distance. Amalia holds her hand up for the three others to stop and quietly creeps up beside him, kneeling down. Down an embankment before them is the mouth of the mine with four Venatori posted at its entrance, idly lounging in inactivity.

Amalia racks her brain, trying to come up with a plan that doesn’t involve sliding down the slope and charging, which, admittedly, is usually a successful tactic. Blowing things up, hacking and slashing, and freezing enemies is typically the tactic of approach, generally successful enough due to her team’s sheer amount of skill and force. And if she’s the least skilled person in the Inquisition, well—she’s a good pretender.

Fenris is silent next to her, before he shifts to look back at her team. “You and the archer, stay here. Qunari and mage block the path to escape and push forward.” His eyes narrow. “Archer takes one, you take another, I’ll take the last two. Do it quietly.”

Amalia looks at him. “You’re taking two?” She whispers, feeling her stomach turning anxiously. Hawke and Varric will personally murder her if they find out she killed Fenris or let him die or something equally as awful.

He points at two of the Venatori who stand next to each other, beneath the ledge above the mouth of the mine.

Amalia nods, and backs away from the brush as quietly as possible. She points at Bull and Solas, and waves them in the direction of the choke point, and motions Sera to follow her. She looks over her shoulder and finds that Fenris is already gone, having retreated silently in the brief moments of her inattention.

Sera nimbly climbs a tree, perching on a branch with her bow drawn like a small sparrow, while Amalia readies her staff, reaching for the wealth of her magic. One spike of ice through the chest will do the job, easily, with a contingency plan consisting of “blow him up”.

A flash of glowing, iridescent blue dropping from above the mouth of cave is all the warning she gets before Fenris has the claws of his left gauntlet ripping open the throat of one of the mages and his other hand inside of the second’s chest. Sera’s arrow whistles past her, piercing straight through the third’s eye, and Amalia lets her magic snap, causing an ice spike to spur through the ground and through the chest of the last guard with the added bonus of cutting his vocal chords.

Fenris rips his hand from inside the chest of the mage, and his markings stop glowing. Sera lightly drops from the tree, and they slide down the embankment as Solas and Bull approach. Fenris shakes his hand, which is completely coated in blood, and wipes it on one of the dead mages’ coat.

Bull is looking at Fenris with an expression akin to awe. “You need to show me that trick.”

Fenris straightens, giving Bull a strange look. “The price isn’t worth it.”

Killing the Venatori inside the mine is nothing more than a pure slaughter. With Sera’s clean precision with her bow, Bull swinging his axe with force great enough to crumple even the hardiest plate armor, and Fenris slicing through gaps in armor and beheading enemies with ease, briefly glowing blue when a soldier corners him and appearing to rip the heart out of the man’s chest, the fight is easier than most of their previous encounters with Venatori forces.

If only Haven had been this easy—

She clamps down on that thought with a mental iron vice.

Solas magically holds the last two Venatori immobile, and Amalia incinerates them with a controlled burst of fire, illuminating the mine. When all of the soldiers have fallen, Fenris approaches the red lyrium deposit that the Venatori had obviously been after. He appraises it with a look approaching vehement disgust, and efficiently destroys it with a well-placed blow with his sword.

Sera is looting the corpses mechanically, taking anything she deems useful. Mostly, Amalia trusts Sera’s judgment when it comes to contents that are worth carrying back with them—Sera’s got a talent for a value versus weight ratio, maximizing their wealth and minimizing their aches. In the ten seconds she spends watching Sera shove a body onto its back, she fails to notice Fenris leaving the mine until he’s nearly halfway out.

“Sweep the mine for remaining lyrium deposits and anything we could use,” She calls before hurrying after the elf.

“Fenris!” She calls after him, exiting out the cave and blinking in the sunlight. He stops, turning to face her. She doesn’t even thing, doesn’t even hesitate, summoning her wealth of Trevelyan impulsivity with a side of desperation. “I…have a proposition.” She says.

He shifts his weight, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You hunt Tevinters, right?” She pauses, “Does the name Corypheus sound familiar?” She asks. Fenris’s eyes widen in recognition, and she lets out a breath in relief. She had hoped that he would know about the magister, just as Varric and Hawke had. “He created the Breach and is aiming to enter the Fade and become a god. Tevinter mages, the Venatori, are assisting him to try to ‘restore’ the Imperium.”

She takes a deep breath, clamping down on her nerves. “We could use your help. The Inquisition could. Varric has always spoke highly of you, and you’re better than most people I’ve ever met.” She swallows a lump in her throat. “Essentially, I would like if you joined the Inquisition. Help us take Corypheus down. Varric is with us, and Hawke was with us not too long ago, and’ll be back shortly.”

Fenris watches her, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “It’s truly Corypheus?” He asks.

Amalia nods. “Hawke told us about him, about the warden prison.”

He drops his arms to his sides, approaching her with even, measured steps. “I will…join you, for the time being.” He holds his hand out, and Amalia can’t help the smile that spreads across her face, taking his hand in hers in a firm handshake, ignoring the blood still clinging to his skin.

“We’ll be returning to Skyhold shortly, our home base. I have to check in with our forces out here, but then we’ll be on our way.” She meets his eyes, the most mesmerizing, deep green. “Varric will be happy to see you.” Amalia smiles, jumping to release his hand after realizing that she’d never let go.

His lips quirk. “I will see you there, Inquisitor.”


	3. two

Their small group returns to Skyhold with Fenris in tow, lagging a bit behind them. He’s been quiet for most of the trip, and she figures that it’s part of his nature and tries not to take it personally. Light snow has been falling for most of the trip since they started getting up in the elevation, a fact that she believes he doesn’t particularly appreciate.

To be fair, Amalia hated the snow from the beginning at Haven, where there’d been a constant layer of snow or frost, but the chill has grown on her to some degree. Skyhold seems to sit in a relatively temperate area with much less snow than the surrounding valley, though not without a chill in the air.

They come around the final bend in the road, and Skyhold suddenly comes into view. The giant fortress overlooks the wide valley they’re crossing, at the same time a strategic vantage point and what should be a beautiful view.

Sometimes, at night when her head is full of shitty memories, it feels like a terrifying prison—a circle of magi, a jail for people like her, with the Maker’s curse, or so they like to tell her.

They, being her family.

She shakes the feeling—Skyhold is beautiful with the plush garden and the people quickly becoming family, the kind of family that she’d dreamt of. The first time she’d seen Skyhold, climbing over the rise of the mountain, the fortress had felt like some sort of blessing, a reprieve from their harsh, hopeless situation.

Haven was a battleground, a slaughter. All of the dead and all of the blood spattered across the ground despite her best effort, despite whirling her staff so hard, swinging swords she didn’t know how to use and dragging every ounce of magic from every fiber within her until she felt as if her whole body was on fire, only to be brutally quenched by the bitter snow and ice on that mountain.

Amalia looks over her shoulder, half turning to face Fenris to gauge his first reaction to Skyhold. He’s transfixed, his green eyes appearing huge in his face at the sight of the giant fortress.

“Fenris,” She says, her spine straightening, “Welcome to Skyhold.”

The rest of the way to Skyhold is a steady hike up a gently sloping, winding path. Some of her soldiers meet her at the entrance, saluting her.

“Tell my advisors that I will write a report shortly,” She says, “Is there anything I should know?” She asks Leliana’s scout that meets her at the front gate.

“Nothing pressing, Inquisitor.” The scout scrutinizes Fenris as he enters the keep, before saluting her and walking off, no doubt going straight to Leliana to report the new member.

“Alright everyone, well done. Go get some rest,” Amalia tells Sera, Bull, and Solas, clapping her hands together, and her followers disperse to their respective haunts, Sera and Bull talking loudly. She turns to Fenris, “I can give you a quick tour, if you want?” She says.

Fenris nods silently, his eyes roaming the courtyard, taking in the surroundings.

“Okay,” She says, turning to lead him for the steps that lead up to the main yard of the Keep. She points out landmarks as they pass them—the stables, the tavern, stairs up to the battlements, and the smith. She can feel Cassandra’s pointed stare on the back of her head as she leads Fenris up the steps into the keep.

“Varric!” She calls, “There’s someone here that you should see!” Fenris seems to straighten in anticipation.

“Yes, your inquisitorialness-“ Varric cuts off when he sees her follower. “Fenris! What are you doing here?” Varric grins broadly, and an answering smile spreads across Fenris’s face, tentative yet hopeful.

Amalia smiles softly, ducking away to let the two friends reminisce. She knows when she’s unwanted, superfluous, and she turns to make the rest of her rounds around the hold. She carries herself with confidence when in Skyhold, her spine ramrod straight and her voice made of steel. Her shoulders are held back proudly, her chin lifted with all of the air of aristocracy, commanding respect from those around her.

So far, her façade has been effective. Her people don’t recognize her as the fraud that she is, undeserving of the insignia emblazoned across her armor and the title she’s been bestowed. “Inquisitor” and “Your worship” are ill-fitting suits of armor, hanging loose off of her too thin frame lacking the bulk and muscle of the warriors around her.

Meeting Hawke had been a sharp wake-up call, that she didn’t deserve this, didn’t belong here. The Hero of Ferelden and Hawke would’ve been better as Inquisitor, far better than small Amalia Trevelyan. Hawke is a force of nature all on her own, on and off the battlefield.

She’s sitting on a bench in the main yard some time later, writing up her report for Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, when Cassandra’s shadow falls over her. “Cassandra,” She says lightly in greeting, not looking up from her report.

“Inquisitor, was that who I think it was?” Cassandra’s clearly attempting to keep her voice neutral, but Amalia can sense the warning in it, the accusation.

“Probably,” She replies, finally looking up at the warrior, who has put on her menacing face for this interaction. “He assisted in taking down the Venatori and, quite honestly, was good at it.” Amalia pauses, “No, good doesn’t do him justice. It was the easiest encounter we’ve ever had with the Venatori.” She shrugs, “He was willing to join us, and I don’t think we’re in a position that we can say ‘no’ to that kind of help.” She brushes stray hair out of her face, “Actually, I know we aren’t in a position that we can say no. Haven was a slaughter, Cassandra. We’re dangerously low on manpower.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, a noise that Amalia could hear in her sleep due to the regularity of Cassandra’s various disapproving noises. “Inquisitor, how can we be sure we can trust him—“

“Seeker, I can assure you, Fenris is going to pose no threat to us.” Varric cuts in, Fenris conspicuously absent. “Though, Inquisitor, you might want to warn Sparkler; our esteemed guest isn’t a fan of Tevinters.”

Amalia lurches to her feet in alarm at the thought of a confrontation between the two.“Varric, what do I do? Are they going to kill each other?” She sputters, hurriedly passing her unfinished report to Cassandra. “Should I disarm them? Give a public service announcement about no fighting?”

“Just make sure Sparkler doesn’t provoke him, and there shouldn’t be a problem.” Varric smirks. “Fenris is used to working with people he isn’t a fan of.”

Amalia nods before hurrying back to the keep. She doesn’t need a crisis on her hands; she’s already had to break up a fight between Cassandra and Varric, she doesn’t need to break up a fight between a powerful Tevinter mage and a volatile warrior elf who can, apparently, rip organs from chests.

Fenris seems to be deep in conversation with Solas when she makes it to the stairs that lead to Dorian’s typical haunt. Fenris has his arms crossed and eyes narrowed in a definite glower, and Amalia nearly skids to a stop. Apparently, the fight between Dorian and Fenris is not the immediate issue; it’s a fight between Solas and Fenris.

“So the markings are lyrium branded into your skin?” Solas says slowly, his hands clasped behind him. Fenris stiffens, shifting his weight, and Amalia feels her heart stop beating. She should’ve known to intercept this argument sooner—Solas isn’t one to take elven abuse and whatnot lightly.

“They are.” Fenris growls in warning.

Amalia backtracks, standing close enough so that she can plausibly lunge between them if necessary, as little good as that would do. There is no doubt in the world that Fenris would be able to knock her down with ease, but that’s what being Inquisitor is about, apparently—breaking up constant fights between people who don’t get along and being thrown to the ground in the process.

“So that’s where your unique abilities stem from.” Solas says, “Did you do them yourself?” It’s clear Solas knows the answer to this question, and Amalia nearly wants to slap him in frustration. And Varric said Dorian would be the issue.

Fenris snorts in derision, “No.” He bites. “My former master in Tevinter branded them into my skin.” He spits venomously.

Solas stiffens, the expression on his face hardening. “How could you let this happen?” Solas breaks off when Fenris’s tattoos light up, and his weight rocks forward to close in on Solas.

Deciding that enough was enough, Amalia lunges forward, bracing a hand on Fenris’s chest and looking quickly between the two. “ _, I think that’s enough on talking about tattoos,” Amalia’s voice is embarrassingly shrill, and Fenris jerks away from her. “Fenris, why don’t you check out the tavern, I believe we have a good vintage wine in stock.” She looks between the two, and Fenris turns on his heel, stalking off. “Solas, let’s not provoke the former slave, please.” Amalia says exasperatedly. “I’m sure he has insight on strategies to fight Tevinter magisters and I’m also sure we can do without causing anymore arguments.”_

Solas curtly nods before sitting down at the table, opening a book. Amalia lets out a sigh of relief, and goes up to speak with Dorian about, also, not provoking the former slave. On her way up, she thinks of Vivienne, and resolves that maybe she should talk to everyone in all of Skyhold about their new member.

Honestly, she feels like a glorified babysitter.

It’s well past dusk before Amalia has finished making her rounds, speaking with everyone and writing her reports and corresponding with her advisors about the state of things. The Orlesian Ball is in flux, and Josephine is working to get an invite. Corypheus is still nowhere to be found but at the same time everywhere, and her distant cousins are stirring up trouble, as usual.

She fucking hates her family, and she’s sure the feeling is mutual.

Amalia paces the length of the battlements, massaging her temples to try to make her headache go away and the get her entire life to make sense again. If only her band of merry misfits would play nice she wouldn’t be stuck diffusing bombs all of the time. If it’s not one fight, it’s another. Sera and Solas yelling about elves, Vivienne demeaning, well, everyone, Cassandra throwing desks or chairs or punches at Varric, and now Solas and Dorian potentially making the most dangerous person in all of Skyhold angry—it’s really beyond what she needs in her life at this point.

And on top of that, the Trevelyans are being menaces out in the Free Marches, demanding favors from the abandoned, youngest child who hasn’t received a single piece of correspondence since her Harrowing.

It’s really unbelievable, how her distant family members all the way in fucking Nevarra and wherever else they exist demand favors from her like she’s some kind of barmaid. She’s the Inquisitor with a magic mark on her hand that gives her the qualification to lead a giant military force, but that’s neither here nor there.

Her very position demands the respect that her family members conveniently withhold from her, and, quite frankly, she could beat them in a fight should it be necessary.

Now, if everything would just stop being so hard, maybe she wouldn’t feel like such shit all the time.

She picks up a rock on the ground, and throws it as hard as she can over the edge of the battlement with a frustrated growl.

“You should try stabbing, it’s more helpful,” A voice to her side says. Amalia nearly jumps out of her skin, her magic instinctively coiling inside her. Fenris is sitting on the edge of the battlements, looking out on the valley below. He’s shed his armor and heavy coat, and it makes him look smaller somehow—no less imposing, but just less intimidating.

“You scared the shit out of me,” She says, approaching him, worrying at the overlong hems of her sleeves.

“You wouldn’t be the first.” He replies, readjusting his perch on the edge, his feet hanging over the long drop into the valley. She can’t tell if he’s like most elves or not like them—out in the Hinterlands, where they met, he’d been wearing soft leather boots, but here in Skyhold, he’s without shoes, much like most elves she’s met.

Amalia heaves a sigh, sitting next to him, but facing the inside of the hold, rather than the sickening drop. “Not going to sleep?” She asks, tugging at the sleeves of her coat in a futile attempt to keep her hands warm. During the day, Skyhold is mostly temperate, but once the sun sets, a chill settles over the fortress. The fires lit throughout keep the interior locations warm, but out on the battlements and in the yard, there’s definitely no solace.

“Later, perhaps.” He says, leaning forward for a brief moment, presumably to look at something specific out in the valley.

“It’s all very overwhelming, isn’t it?” She looks up at the night sky, the sky filled with stars that are much less numerous in the larger cities.

“Haven’t been around this many people since leaving Kirkwall.” Fenris admits. “I’ll readjust.”

“Hawke said something similar,” She says. “She said it’s been just her and Anders for a long time.”

Fenris huffs a breath. “Still with the abomination, as usual.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly, though his tone betrays his supposed aggravation. He sounds amused and unsurprised.

“A lot of people hate what he did,” Amalia begins, “But it also got a lot of us out of the Circle.” She looks at him. His profile is so very different from human faces, elven features just different enough to change all of the angles and the ways light illuminates the planes of his face. “I was in the Ostwick Circle, had been there all my life. Ostwick had been getting worse, more corrupt, more dangerous.” She sighs heavily, clasping her hands in her lap. “When Anders started the rebellion…” She hesitates, “It gave a lot of people the courage to get out.”

“I know.” He replies quietly, meeting her eyes. “Hawke insisted if it wasn’t Anders, it would be someone else.”

“Varric said you hate mages.” Amalia states in an effort to air out any potential conflicts.

“I used to.” Fenris looks back out at the valley. “Hawke changed a lot of things. She changes everything she touches.” He looks down, out at the darkened valley. “Now, just magisters. Slavers.”

“Not unjustly.” Amalia replies. “So, you aren’t going to be a problem? With the mages here—me and the others.”

“I’m not going to make friends with the Tevinter, if that’s what you’re asking.” He bites.

Amalia winces. “I’ll pass the message on.” She gets to her feet. “Dorian is harmless though. He’s not going to be a problem.”

Fenris grunts in response.

“Good night, Fenris.” Amalia says, climbing down the stairs to return to the keep.


End file.
